


Never Be Alone

by Scavengersdaughter2



Series: Birthday Songfic Playlist [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Alternate Universe Crime Syndicate, Alternate Universe no werewolves, Artist!Stiles, Blow Jobs, Blow Jobs in a Car, M/M, Minor Character Death, Songfic, based on a Shawn Mendes song, derek is the crime boss, pretty violent, stiles is just trying to live, this is a gang story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-24 08:43:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scavengersdaughter2/pseuds/Scavengersdaughter2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is the boss of California's number one crime syndicate. When he meets college student Stiles Stilinski, his life changes. Some would argue for the better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Be Alone

"Please, I'll- I can get the money back." 

Derek stared down at the man impassively. "Maybe you shouldn't have stolen it from me in the first place." He crouched in front of him. "You should know what happens to people who steal from me." He brushed his gun's muzzle across the man's jaw. Almost caressing. 

"Please-" He melted into incoherent sobs.  

Pathetic. 

Derek stood up. "You have a house. Somewhere in back in Sacramento..." He looked to his right hand man. "There might be some things to pawn there."  

Boyd nodded. 

He walked directly behind the man on his knees. Derek put his shoe in the middle of the traitor's shoulder blades. He kicked forward.  

There was no way to brace for impact because of his hands, bound behind his back. 

Derek ordered two of his men to drag him to the curb.  

The thief was screaming.  

They forced his mouth open and pushed the cement ledge between his teeth. His cries became slurred and distorted. 

Derek stood over him, one foot to his side. The other was poised just above the back of the traitor's head. "No one fucks with me," he growled. 

He brought his foot down. 

The sound of a breaking jaw was distinct. A sharp crack of bone dampened by skin and flesh. 

Derek stepped back and plugged three into the guy's back. The screaming stopped. 

"Which doorstep do we drop him on, boss?" 

He pulled out a cigarette; Boyd had his lighter out and ready. "The loan shark brothers. The ones who pay off gambling debts. Leave him there." He took a puff. "If they want to threaten my boys to the point they steal from _me_ , those sacks of shit will be next." 

His right hand nodded. "We'll have him there by morning." 

Derek flicked ashes at the ground. "Bring Jackson with you." 

He nodded in confirmation and left to order the underlings around. 

Derek took another puff.  

He would be in New York for another week. Unfortunately for him, his uncle’s friend owned galleries there. And he _insisted_ that Derek be ‘cultured’. 

"It will be fun." Deaton clapped him on the back.  

Derek's arms remained crossed. "Not my definition of fun." 

"You wound me. After Peter passed, who took you in? Who made you into the success you are now-" 

"Stop. I'll go." It was less off a hassle to just agree. "Just shut up." 

Deaton smiled, thinking he’d successfully guilt tripped his god son.  

Derek would just let him believe that. 

"You won't regret it." 

　 

Derek regretted it. 

The gallery itself was nice. The pieces of art, the majority at least, were mediocre. 

What he couldn't stand was the people. 

It was crowded with young starving artists (hipsters. Truly detestable), pretentious assholes, and the people actually there to buy art, not just stand around looking 'educated' or what have you. Arguably, the last were the most annoying. 

But there was an open bar, which made the shit show somewhat redeemable. Maybe. 

He held a glass of champagne (his third, actually) and walked around, side stepping attempts at conversation like he was tiptoeing through a mine field. 

He knocked back the rest of his drink. 

The mine field would have been more agreeable. 

 

An intricate flower painting became the receiver of his resting bitch face.  

He'd organized a business meeting two days prior with some people he was interested in. It would be awhile before they'd let him know their thoughts.  

 

There was a group of six or seven crowded around one douche bag with glasses. He looked like he was giving a lecture. "See the delicate brush strokes? The gentle beauty. It invokes such emotion. You can't help but feel what the artist was feeling. Anger at the fragility of life-" Derek rolled his eyes and moved away. 

 

Which was basically how the whole night had been going in a nutshell. 

Deaton wanted him to at least stay until 11PM.  

The man looked to his watch. 10:08PM. 

 _Fuck everything._  

 

He stood in front of a different painting. Tightly controlled splatters of grey and white created the base of a tree. The background was a dark, navy blue. Almost black. 

This one...this one he liked. 

It was lonely. It made Derek _feel_ lonely. 

 

He scanned the room from behind his glass. A habit for security reasons. 

That’s when he first caught sight of something _truly_ beautiful. 

Red lips. Pale Skin. Cupid's bow. A splatter of dark moles on an otherwise white canvas. 

His eyes drifted further down. A firm, glorious ass. Clad in tight fitting skinny jeans. 

He was young. College aged, probably. 

 

Well, the gallery couldn’t be all that bad if someone like _that_ was there. 

 

And before he knew it, the pretty face was walking over. Derek raised the glass to his mouth, concealing his pleased expression. 

The pretty face turned to him. "Not your thing?" 

His eyes were huge. Breathtaking amber. Derek gripped the glass in his hand. "You can tell?"  

He smiled and gestured in a vague sweep at the pieces around them. "Maybe try not to glare at the paintings so much?" 

"Maybe I wasn't glaring at the paintings." 

Bambi Eyes nodded, lifting his own glass to his lips. "Then it must be the pretentious assholes who've been 'understanding' the art. Seriously, there could be a blue square and suddenly it's got some deep meaning." In a high pitched, mocking voice, he said: "Ah, yes, the blue symbolizes the artist's melancholy. The size _is clearly_ an indicator of their dissatisfaction with life. Like, _fuck,_ sometimes a square is just a square." 

Derek, before he could stop himself, huffed a laugh. He blamed the alcohol. He turned fully to the pretty face. He held out his free hand. "Derek." 

He had long, pale fingers. "I'm Stiles."  

Derek let his hand linger, fingers moving to caress the sliver of wrist peaking from his sleeve.  

Stiles' face flushed unevenly. He was probably red other places too. Derek wanted to find out. "So what do you think?" Stiles gestured to the painting. 

"It's one of the only paintings I don't hate on sight." He nodded towards the tree stump. "I like it." 

Stiles seemed taken back. "That’s actually kind of surprising." 

He drained his glass. "Just because I don't understand it doesn't mean I can't appreciate it." 

The other nodded. "That’s good though. That you like it, I mean. I’m always afraid how my new pieces will do." 

Derek blinked. Stiles was staring forward, emptying his own glass. The personal statement next to the painting read: Stiles Stilinski. 

"You painted this," he said dumbly. 

"Shocking, I know." 

Derek didn’t exactly understand it himself but Stiles creating a piece that resonated with the loneliness inside made him... more desirable. "So do you do this for a living?" 

"I’m going to school for design, actually. But Deaton is pretty cool and sometimes puts out my work. The extra cash is nice." 

Deaton could be reasonable if he put his mind to it. The other eighty percent of the time he was an insufferable, manipulative pain. Just like Peter had been. It made sense why they'd been such good friends. 

"Are you from around here?" Stiles asked. 

Derek eyed him. "Do I look like I'm not?" 

Stiles' face said ' _seriously?'_. "No. Not really." 

"I could be," he countered. "New York is big." 

"Maybe." He gave Derek a long pass. "But I don't think so." 

"Where am I from then?" 

"We're playing this game?" He set his empty glass on a passing waitress' tray. "Because I'll win." 

"We'll see." 

Stiles rubbed his chin, a look of concentration on his face. "Hmm. I got it." He nodded to himself. "West coast, definitely. My best guess is California." 

Derek blinked. Scenarios ran through his head. One of his enemies getting a spy to seduce him and- 

"Oh, man, I'm right. Aren't I?" He was smiling. "That's awesome. First try, too. Double points." 

Derek shook his head. "You're right. Now what do you win?" 

Stiles seemed to consider before putting his hand up. "How about a solid high five?" 

Derek awkwardly acquiesced. 

He couldn't be a rival's spy. Or some assassin sent by the other head members in the syndicate. 

Derek took another sweep of the room. More people were crowding around. Security risks.  

Stiles was blushing unevenly again, probably because Derek had stepped closer. 

Deaton would understand if he left early. 

"I'm staying in a hotel around here," Derek said in a low voice. Suggestive intent clear. 

Stiles' tongue darted out to lick his lips. "Do you need help settling in?"  

His eyes fell to Derek's crotch.  

 _Fuck._  

 

He kept a hand on the small of Stiles' back as they weaved through the gallery. 

 

"So how far away is your hotel?" 

They walked through the doors, stepping into the cold air outside. 

"It won't take very long once we get my car-" 

Stiles let go of Derek's arm. "Car?" 

"Yes...?" Then he realized; a man he just met, who looked of dubious background at best, wanted to take him in his car, to his 'hotel'. "I could be planning to murder you," he said, voicing the other's worries. 

Stiles nodded. "You really could." 

Derek didn't know how to proceed. While he was technically a bad guy, he wasn't going to do anything to Stiles. His violence was calculated. It was purposeful- 

"Here." Stiles held out his pinky.  

Derek looked at the extended finger. "What am I supposed to be doing?" 

He shook his pinky. "Pinky swear?" 

"You think a pinky swear will stop me from murdering you?" 

"It might." 

Derek was biting back a smile when they interlocked fingers. 

"Swear you won't kidnap and murder me?" 

"I swear," he said, more than a little amused. 

Stiles took his pinky back, looking satisfied. They started walking to the parking garage. 

"You really aren't from here." At Derek's look, he explained: "Dude, you have a car." 

"Your point?" 

Stiles turned to give him a look. " _No one_ has a car." 

　 

He ran his hand over the black leather of Derek's Camaro.  

"Are you clean?" Stiles asked the moment they pulled out of the garage. 

"Yes," Derek answered, without hesitation. It'd been awhile since he could let down his guard enough to do anything remotely sexual. And he'd been tested since then.  

"OK, good. I am too, by the way." 

Derek moved his hand to Stiles' thigh. It was slim, but firm. Lean muscle. He squeezed. 

Stiles looked to him. "How good of a driver are you?" 

Derek's mind flashed to brutal car chases and getaways. "Pretty good." 

"Concentration?" 

"Even better." 

Stiles smiled. "Excellent." He turned to Derek, forcing him to take his hand off the tantalizing thigh. 

"What are you-" 

Stiles half climbed over the console, letting his seat belt click off. "Just keep your eyes on the road."  

"I'm going to try," he said. His voice sounded rough. 

Stiles settled with the console under his ribs, bracing his right hand on the dash. 

Derek lifted off the seat for so the other could peel his pants and underwear down, getting his dick out. Stiles curled his left hand around the base of Derek's cock, steadying it. 

He mouthed around the head, getting used to the sheer size of him. After the second or third hard suck, Derek's hand clamped down on Stiles' hip, bracing him through what felt like another high-speed turn. At least he hadn't been sent him flying off the seat yet. 

Stiles went down farther, then bobbed back up. Derek's grip on Stiles' hip tightened. 

Derek grunted again, sounding needy. His hand closed painfully hard on Stiles' hip. It took all of his restraint not to fuck Stiles' mouth. 

He sucked harder, working the thick cock over with his hand. Derek's hips were twitching up in little helpless thrusts. He was throbbing in Stiles' mouth. 

Derek pulled him up by the hair. "We'll be there soon." 

Stiles' own pants were getting tight. 

　 

Derek closed the door and spun Stiles around, effectively pinning him against it. 

He slid a hand between his legs.  

Stiles bucked against him sharply, hands fisting the front of Derek's jacket. Pulling him even closer. 

Derek bit down on his shoulder. 

　 

That's how it started. A one night stand turned to Derek stopping by his apartment any time he happened to find himself in New York. 

Things were easy with Stiles. 

He didn't have to worry about being Big Scary Gang Boss. It was easy and so _normal_ between them.  

It was a breath of fresh air from his daily life. 

He traveled around the country. Being gone a whole week or two wasn't uncommon. But he and Stiles made it work. Kind of. 

 

"You're always so far away." 

"That's the distinction. I'm far but never gone." 

"Same difference." 

Derek petted a hand down his back. "I promise one day I'll be around." 

"But _when_?" 

　 

He wasn't going to tell him about the syndicate. Not yet.  

Things were getting rough in the business. 

Stiles couldn't be dragged into it. 

　 

The flames were high. Derek stared blankly. 

"Are all of our California offices burning?" 

Boyd kept his expression neutral. "Only in Palo Alto and West Hollywood." 

Something was popping in the fire. Probably someone’s piece. 

"That’s still four separate factions." 

Boyd didn’t say anything. 

Derek pulled out a cigarette. "Someone is testing my patience." 

It took a month to find the one responsible for the fires. Just some low level arsonist who said he’d been given instructions and cash anonymously. He was a dead end and promptly taken care of. He handed control to Boyd and flew to New York. 

He needed to see Stiles. 

　 

"Derek..." His voice was pleading. 

The man stopped teasing and put Stiles' cock in his mouth. 

Long fingers fisted his hair. 

He licked against the head, dipping further down to tongue at the vein running on the underside of his cock. 

Stiles panted above him. He watched with hooded eyes as he disappeared into Derek's mouth. 

He was dripping with precum, so wet for Derek. He could taste him on his tongue. He licked at the slit. 

Derek closed his mouth around the head and swallowed down until his nose was tickled by the small crop of hair at the base of Stiles' cock. 

The hands in his hair pulled harder. Stiles was cursing. 

Derek bobbed his head, bracing a hand against Stiles' slim hip to keep him from bucking forward. 

 

"Was that an apology for being gone a whole month?" Stiles asked against his chest. 

Derek held him tighter. "It was me missing you." 

His breath was warm against the man's naked skin. "Do you really have to leave in the morning?" 

Derek let out a breath. "I can't stay." 

"There are some things we need to talk about." 

"I know." He kissed Stiles' forehead. "Just let me hold you for a little longer." 

A gang is a business. Derek had front groups across the country. 

His cover companies were crucial. 

With the burning of his California offices, he'd taken a hit. Boyd and the rest were working on finding another space. Because as long as his business was losing money, his syndicate was suffering.  

　 

"When are you going to tell me what you do?" 

Derek should have seen the question coming. Well, he had, actually. Which is why he replied: "Business. Sales, mostly," with a mechanical efficiency. That answer should've sufficed; it would explain the expensive suits and constant traveling. 

What he _hadn't_ seen coming was Stiles' response. 

He laughed. 

He laughed until his cheeks turned pink and his eyes watered. Still out of breath, he said: "Bullshit." 

Derek crossed his arms, semi-offended that Stiles was insulting his cover job. "What do you mean 'bullshit'?" 

"I mean: no freaking way you're a salesman." 

"I prefer the 'businessman'." 

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Fine, then. You must deal with stocks a lot, right?" 

"Yeah...?" 

"OK, how's the Dow Jones been recently? I haven't had a chance to look." He stared at Derek. A smarmy look on his face. "You should know. It's pretty important." 

"I don't know." 

"See? If you were really-" 

"Well, that's not exactly my area. I only come across the market occasionally. So I don't keep up with it." 

Stiles mirrored Derek's crossed arms. "OK, then. What's your area of expertise?" 

"Cars," Derek managed with no hesitation. He hadn't thought this far; usually when he said something, those around him (his subordinates) took it as absolute law. He was never put on the spot. They didn't question him like this, because he didn't let them. 

Stiles nodded to himself. "OK, Mr. Car Salesman-" Derek stared at him "- excuse me, Mr. Car _Businessman_ , what's the tariff on importing foreign cars in the United States?" 

"...I only deal with other countries?" 

Stiles smirked in triumph."That's what I thought. Now tell me-" 

Derek's phone started ringing. He looked to Stiles before taking it out. He heard him mumble, "By all means, answer your phone. We can always talk later." 

Boyd started in without a greeting. "Boss, Matt gave us a tip." 

Derek didn’t let anything show on his face. "Is it good?" 

"We think so. Shipment at the docks in Long Beach is coming up. It looks good for the dirty stuff we’ve been finding." 

"I’ll make my over." He ended the call.  

Stiles was staring at him. "Seriously?" 

He moved to the bedroom, gathering his things. "This is time sensitive. I have to go." 

Stiles leaned against the door way. "When will you be here again?" 

Derek walked to him. He brushed a hand over the other's hip. "I don’t know." 

Stiles turned away.  

"I promise one day I'll be around," he tried. 

Stiles looked back to him. "But _when_?" 

"When I can tell you everything." 

Stiles touched his hand. "I'm right here. You can tell me-" 

"No. Not yet." He pulled away from Stiles' hand. "Right now it's been crazy at work. And I don't know how to slow it down. So until I can stop it, I'll keep you safe." 

He shook his head. "You can't do that, Derek." 

"Why not?" 

"Because I'm always alone." _You're never here._  

Derek couldn't respond. 

　 

The mole’s info was bad. 

 

It was a drug drop; pretty standard. Except the stuff being distributed, without Derek's consent though it was his territory, was impure. His guys had been finding it everywhere. 

 

The drop wasn't at 12AM. It was 11PM. 

There weren't four men. There were five. 

Derek and five of his guys showed up thirty to eleven, thinking that'd be enough time. 

They walked into an ambush, essentially. 

 

There was a body on the docks. Tied and bloodied; solitary lamp post creating a spotlight on the macabre vision. When Derek's eyes landed on the prone form, he’d worked out the set up. 

That's about the time bullets started flying. 

They dived for cover. Behind crates, low hanging walls. Anything to avoid the gunfire. 

 

Isaac took one to the shoulder. 

They downed two on the other side. 

 

Derek popped up and plugged three into the woman crouching behind a drum of rain water. 

Erica cursed when a bullet hit her calf, through and through, by the look of it. 

Another of Deucalion's fell. 

 

There were only four so- 

He couldn't be sure if that intelligence was still good.  

There might've been more hiding- 

A bullet whizzed by his face. He felt the skin rip and the blood start pouring. 

 

The roof. 

He aimed his gun up. 

The shooter fell after at least two of the five Derek sent their way made contact. 

　 

He shoved a foot under his informant's body, flipping him over. 

His face was a swollen mess. He was unrecognizable. The only indicator was the lizard tattoo on his hand. 'RAT' was branded on his forehead. Judging by the blood, his tongue had been ripped out. 

He didn't bother checking for a pulse. His skin had the grey pallor of death. 

 _Damn._  

He brushed a hand over the cut on his face. His fingers came back red. 

 

Derek looked at the sky. 

An endless sea of lights. 

He felt peace knowing Stiles was lying under the same stars. 

　 

 

The cut on his face was healing. After three weeks, it was just another scar. 

He wanted to get back to New York. 

He wanted to hold Stiles. 

 

 

The loan shark brothers. 

The lower ranks had picked up on rumors. Whispers of the brothers ‘scouting’ for others to do their dirty work. 

Derek had no way of knowing if the rumors were true. 

So he had one of them brought in for a talk.  

　 

"Who’s calling the shots?" He yanked his head up by a fistful of hair. "You’re not smart enough to pull this off. Someone is telling you what to do." 

Ethan just gritted his teeth. 

Derek pulled on his hair harder before shoving his face into the ground. He pulled out his gun, standing over him. "I don’t have any use for a dog that won’t talk." He pressed the muzzle into the back of the guy’s head. Derek cocked it. 

"Wait- I’ll, I can tell you." 

He lifted the gun away and stepped over the slab of his body. "Talk. Now." 

"It’s Deucalion. He’s the one- We’re supposed to go after each other. You know, other people in the business. Turn everyone against each other. Stir the pot a little. That’s all. It’s nothing-" he looked in Derek’s eyes, "personal." 

Derek nodded. "I appreciate your honesty." He examined his gun. Lifted it and pointed it between the guy’s eyes. 

"But I told you! I thought-" 

"You thought I’d forget about what you had your men do to Matt? Or that two on my side got shot in that fake pick up? And the offices I lost after that hired arsonist?" 

Ethan was trembling. 

"What about all the money I’ve lost because you and your brother are offering ‘reduced’ interest rates on loans? But you don't tell them that means they have to pay earlier." He jammed the gun harder into Ethan's face. "And when my guys get in too deep, you put pressure on them to steal from _me_?"  

"Listen, I'm sorry about that. It’s just Deucalion-" 

Derek drew back enough to shoot him in the forehead.  

He nodded over to three of his guys, who dragged the body away.  

 

"Bullshit." 

Boyd silently joined him as he moved to the car. "What is, boss?" 

He pulled out a cigarette. "This isn’t business. It’s personal." 

 

 

Derek had a summons from the man himself. 

A café in West Hollywood. 

Derek entered with Boyd and Jackson at his sides. When they stepped in, the other five occupants calmly stood and left. 

The Mad Wolf had crossed his path over the years. He could never stick to agreements. 

That agreement being stay the fuck out of California. 

Deucalion arrived shortly after with his second in command. He lowered himself in the adjacent seat. His eyes stared unseeing. 

"What do you want?" Derek growled. Because fuck bureaucracy at this point. 

The giant to Deucalion's left put a hand in his jacket, where the outline of a fire arm was unmistakable. "Show some respect," he demanded. 

Derek could sense the motion of Boyd and Jackson reaching for their own pieces. "You too, fucker," Jackson ground out. 

Deucalion put a hand up, touching the giant's arm. "Ennis, that's enough. We're just having a chat. A friendly chat." 

There was a moment where no one moved. Then, reluctantly, Ennis stood down. 

Derek had his men do the same. "What game are you playing?" He asked, tone low and threatening. Barely concealing the hostile flicker of intent. 

"Game? There is no game." Deucalion leaned back in his chair. "I just want to watch the world burn." 

"Bullshit. You want power." 

He shrugged. "That too." 

"You want California." 

"Ah, yes. But- isn't that your territory?" 

Derek's jaw tensed. "I'm not giving it to you." 

"Hmm. To be expected." 

"You knew I wouldn't give it up. So what do really want?" 

" _I_ just wanted to show you some pictures." He held out his hand. Ennis pulled a white envelope from his breast pocket, flashing his gun a second longer than necessary. Derek was growing impatient. "Kali is something of an amateur photographer. She's quite good. Her, as well as I, would like to show you some of her work." He slid the envelope forward. "I think you'll be very interested." 

Derek tore through the paper, spilling out photos. 

His blood froze when he saw the subject. 

Stiles.  

His apartment. Stiles and him walking side by side. Standing in his kitchen window. Hanging out with friends around his campus. 

"What the fuck are you trying to pull?"  

"I just want to remind you there are those you care for." His smile was polite. Self satisfied. "You are not infallible," the blind man finished. 

"You _fucking-_ " 

"It looks like we're getting excited." He turned to his right hand man. "The lack of impulse control in today's youth." Ennis handed him the cane as his boss stood. 

"If you touch him..." Derek stood up. 

" _I_ wouldn't dare." He walked to the door. "-But someone else might." 

Derek let him go. He couldn't kill him, however annoying he was. The man was too powerful. For now. 

"Where to, boss?" 

Derek grit his teeth, thinking of his next move. "New York." 

　 

"Stay in the car." 

"Boss. We don't know if Deucalion-" 

Derek silenced him with a look. He climbed out and ducked down to stare Boyd in the eyes. Definitively, he said: "Watch the entrance. From the car." 

 

Stiles opened the door. "You know there's such a thing as a call? Or text?" He stepped aside to let Derek in. "I'd even be OK with snail mail." 

Derek was looking around the apartment. He checked the windows. Shut the blinds. 

Stiles watched him warily. "-What are you doing?" 

"Noticed anyone suspicious lately? Like a woman with filed teeth and no shoes?" 

Stiles stared at him blankly. "That's oddly specific." 

"Answer the question." 

"I think I'd remember seeing someone like that." 

"You're sure?" 

He threw his arms out in exasperation. "Yes, oh my fuck. I have not seen your weird woman. What is this about?" 

The man eyed the electrical outlets. "Has anyone been in here? For maintenance or anything? 

Stiles stared up, like he was recalling something. "Yeah, actually. A couple of weeks ago I had to get my internet fixed and this freaking huge repair guy came-" 

Derek's heart was racing. "Show me what he touched." 

"You're freaking me out. Why-" 

"Stiles!" He shouted, using his boss voice. "Show me. Now." 

He swallowed. "Fine."  

It was in the living room, behind his TV. Derek got down on his knees and rooted through the wires. He used the thick silver ring on his middle finger to break the outlet cover. 

"Dude, I actually wanted the security deposit on this place back-" 

"I'll pay for it," he said. Tone leaving no place for argument. 

The actual socket wasn't screwed into the wall. He pulled out the metal inside. A tail of multi-colored wires stopped him from removing it completely. 

There was something at the base, spliced together with the wires. No bigger than a bottle cap. 

He ripped it out and stood. 

Stiles' eyes were huge. "Is that a...." 

"A bug. Yes." Derek dropped it into a glass of Code Red on the coffee table.  

Stiles watched in silent shock. "Derek. I'm going to very calmly ask why someone would bug my apartment." 

"Something actually wired into the apartment...they were planning on long term surveillance," he said more to himself than Stiles. "Probably in the AC lines. Transmission is..." He looked at Stiles. "Are there any places within about... 900 or 1,000 feet of here that are empty? Or that've been vacant for more than two months?" 

"The Eiffel Tower is almost 1,000 feet tall." 

Derek took an angry breath. "I don't think you realize-" 

"-You do know how big a thousand feet is here, right? It's New York. We're living on top of each other. And practically nothing is vacant because squatters and junkies are a thing," he said, voice caustic. He did not appreciate being yelled at. 

"Damn." He rubbed a hand over his face. "I didn't want to drag you into this. I thought by not telling you I could keep you safe."  

"Not telling me what, exactly?" 

 

"You're joking." Derek stared at him blankly. "You're not joking. You're really a gangster." 

"Not just a 'gangster'." 

"Oh, I'm sorry. You're a _crime lord_." 

"Stiles," Derek growled in warning. 

He put his hands up. "Dude, don't get all pissy with me. If you would've been honest from the beginning-" 

"I never actually lied to you." 

"-still. You could've told me." 

Derek stared forward, resting his chin on his waffled hands. "I wanted to protect you." 

Stiles gave him a look that said, _'Clearly it's too late for that'._ "And now your arch nemesis is using me to threaten you." 

Derek nodded. 

"That's...interesting." 

"No, that's _dangerous_." He brushed his knuckles against Stiles' cheek. "He's not a good guy." 

Stiles held up an index finger. "Technically, you're not a good guy either." 

"Watch it." 

"Just saying." 

"You're not taking this seriously." 

Stiles exhaled heavily. "I'm trying. I mean, my boyfriend is the head of a crime syndicate and his rival is targeting me. It's just-" he deflated, "-just a lot to take in." 

Derek stared at him. "You called me your boyfriend." 

"You're an idiot." 

He ignored him, instead retrieving a wrapped bundle from his coat's breast pocket. "I have something for you."  

Stiles accepted it, unwrapping the cloth with gentle hands. "This is a..." He held it between his thumb and index finger. "...A gun?" 

"I thought that much was evident." 

He gave a look like, _Really, Derek? This is what a gun looks like? I had_ no _idea._ "Why...?" 

"You were right. I can't always be here to keep you safe." 

"So...your solution is to give me a gun?" 

"It's a very _nice_ gun. It used to be my favorite." Until he'd started gaining muscle mass and the balance became subpar. 

"Oh, _excuseee_ me." 

Derek clasped his hands. "It would make me feel better." 

"I think I can protect myself, without fire power." 

Derek gave him a look. "You leave your front door unlocked." 

"Yeah, but only sometimes! I just forget." He set the gun down. "And I have a bat if anyone breaks in." 

He put his head in his hands. The thought of Stiles going up against Ennis or Kali with nothing but a bat was enough to give him heart palpitations. "Their breed of criminal is a few steps above petty thief." He looked back up. "If you don't know how to use it, I could teach you-" 

He looked almost offended. "I know how to shoot a gun. My dad's been in law enforcement for his whole life- _oh my fuck_ -" His eyes were wide as he stared at Derek. "You're a gangster. My dad is like, the most police type ever-" He rubbed his face. "I need a second." 

Derek reached forward to grab the gun, then scooted closer next to Stiles. He placed it in his hands. "Just take my piece. So when we're apart, you'll never be alone." 

Stiles had the most deadpan, sarcastic expression he could manage. He held the unloaded piece to his cheek. "Oh, thank goodness! I don't have to worry about missing you ever again, now that I have this _gun_." 

He would've laughed if the situation hadn't literally been life or death. "I'm trying here, Stiles." 

"...I know you are." He stared at the gun in his hands. "You being the head of a crime syndicate explains a lot though. The whole always gone thing." 

Derek touched Stiles' thigh. "I'm sorry about that." 

"No, no it's fine," he said in a way that meant the opposite. "And you can’t just-" he made a circular motion with his hands, mimicking the wheels in his mind turning. Trying to find a solution. "-stop? Doing this?" 

"It’s not that simple." 

"Of course it's not. Just don’t forget about me, alright? Or at least give me a call when shit hits the fan so I won’t be surprised when you come over at midnight talking about shoeless women." 

"I could never forget you." He traced a hand up Stiles' thigh. "And I have something else to say." 

There was intense worry in Stiles' eyes. He said, in a serious voice: "Please don't tell me you're a republican." 

Derek cracked a smile. "I was actually going to say I have fifteen kids around the country and at least four other hook ups. It is four? I lose track sometimes." 

"You're breaking my heart, man." Stiles set the gun back onto the coffee table, next to the bugged Mountain Dew. 

"You started it." 

"OK, I'm done. Please tell me your news." 

Derek took his hand. "My business proposal went through with some partners here. I’m opening up in New York." 

Stiles' smile was blinding. "Is it weird that I’m happy more gangs are here?" He leaned in closer and Derek placed his hands on Stiles’ hips. 

"You'll never be alone," he said against Stiles' lips. 

　 

　 

　 

Bonus: 

"But seriously, do I have to keep your piece?" 

"Stiles." 

"Fine. But if I have to keep it, I'm making it my own. Which means I'm painting it a different color and maybe adding some glitter decals-" 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I want to let you know that the lyric:  
> Take a piece of my heart/ And make it all your own/ So when we are apart/ You will never be alone-  
> was originally going to be in there as something different (something beautiful/sweet) but I accidentally turned it into a pun with Derek giving Stiles his firearm. I made myself laugh so hard I decided to keep it in. So you're welcome *blows a kiss*


End file.
